Friend A
by niconiconyx
Summary: Despite what he tries to tell himself, Yuri Plisetsky absolutely hates playing Friend A when he's with the two of them. (Yuri's thoughts throughout the series about his relationship with Viktor and Yuuri. Platonic! Otabek/Yuri, though it's not a major point in this one-shot.)


Yuri tries to convince himself that he hates them. That he hates their sickening relationship and how oblivious they are to anything else, because he can't stand looking at either of them for any longer than a moment now.

And he does hate them. At least, he has for the majority of his career in the senior devision; it seems that everywhere he goes, the pair is always three steps behind (or ahead, depending on how he looks at it) and he can't seem to get rid of them.

But somewhere deep down, he finds that it's not _hate_ that defines this oddball relationship of theirs. Sure, he gets angry far too often to be healthy and he wants to straight-up murder them in cold blood, but he doesn't _hate_ the both of them.

It's a different feeling, and he can't quite place his finger on it. He's not sure if he wants to, either.

He can't help the nausea that forms at the tip of his throat when he even catches the two acting all happy around each other. He also knows that it's mean to think such things—his grandfather has taught him so much about being kind—but he's not going to tell himself to stop.

When he first sees Yuuri start to edge in front of him just the tiniest bit, it isn't a pleasant experience. After all, he's used to always winning, always having what he wants, so it's his first time seeing everything taken from him all at once.

(No, not really. He won't put it like that; he discounts his grandfather and how hard it was when they separated; that's _family_ and he considers it something else.)

Right then, when he sees the goddamn katsudon's face and the way he tilts his head to Viktor—just the tiniest, tiniest bit, he knows that he's lost the first competition. And his mind can't quite register that; perhaps that's why his lips don't form any cutting remarks this time.

He hates Yuuri then. He hates the Japanese skater for stealing Viktor away, because it's obvious they're not going to care any more about the broken pieces of his life that they left behind.

When he returns back to Russia (and the rink is so empty without Viktor's prescence and he can't stand it), he throws himself into practicing. The only thing on his mind is smashing the katsudon into a pulp so unrecognisable that even the skater that had promised him nothing but lies would be disappointed.

He clinches an angry silver in the Cup of Canada. JJ flashes him that irritating grin of his and he wants nothing more than to punch him in the face, but he's thinking about _what went wrong_ the moment his feet touch familiar ground again.

Yakov doesn't even ask why he's working so hard. Seems more glad then anything that he's finally becoming more serious.

When he sees Yuuri again, he wrinkles his nose and tries to yell at him. The ground seems to sway under his feet; he's not stupid, and he can tell that the two of them have gotten so much closer in the year they haven't seen each other.

The world doesn't need two Yuris. It's become his motto, sort of, since his debut in the senior devision, but when he overtakes the katsudon yet again, the ugly pride swelling in his chest is soon replaced by a sort of fear.

It's doesn't shove the euphoria away he feels, not all of it. Not all at once, either—he compares it to a seed of sorts, pulsing within the pits of stomach with a will of its own and trying to entangle him with its smoky tendrils that don't even exist.

And, no matter how hard he struggles, he can't untangle himself from the mess he's been pulled into. He doesn't understand _why_ he's so scared either; he knows that he's a more than capable skater with a good chance of winning, so why is he feeling this way?

In the end, Yuri doesn't find Yuuri as annoying as he expects. It's when Viktor-goddamn-Nikiforov leaves to check on his dog or something that he finds out.

As they share pirozhkis under the (waning, not-really-there) moonlight, he's smiling. Yuri Plisetsky is smiling at his worst enemy and he doesn't even know why. Perhaps it's Viktor that annoys him instead of the katsudon.

He doesn't know anything past that. Yuri has thought that it was Yuuri that he hated for the past year, but now that he looks at it again, he's not very sure about that anymore.

So he hates the both of them. It's the easiest thing to do in a situation like his, after all. He'll prove that he doesn't need Viktor's help for anything anymore—he's a prima ballerina now, spiralling to feats greater than the silver-haired man can ever achieve, and he wants nothing more than to see the look on his face when he stands over the man he left him for.

• • •

He realises the (painful) truth when he meets someone he can call a friend.

He's surprised when he learns that he's met Otabek before. Sure, the black-haired man seems a little familiar, but he's not the best at remembering faces. Still, the skater is quiet and respects him, and he likes that far more than Viktor and Yuuri's intimate moments together.

When he finds that he's happier around the Kazakhstan stater, he knows what he's been lacking for the past year—and perhaps even longer, but he's scared to dig deeper into the past.

Yuri Plisetsky, in all his rudeness and talent in the ice-skating world, has been lonely for a long time.

He hates it.

And his anger towards the duo starts to fade, settling into something that seems more like a pang of longing. He doesn't hate Viktor for breaking his promise, and he doesn't hate Yuuri for taking the skater away from him.

What he hates isn't them. They're people who've been trying to be nice to him through all his obstinate blindness, after all.

What he hates, however, is how goddamn _close_ they act to each other. Relationships, no matter what kind, have tended to sicken him to the stomach, and this is no exception—everyone goddamn knows that the two of them are like annoying lovebirds in love, but he just wishes that they'd stop flaunting it every once in a while.

It hurts him just the tiniest bit. Despite the pissed-off tiger he tries to act like, he's still a teenager under all his tough words, and he can't just forget about the fact that the three of them have been through a lot together.

For the most part now, though, he's been reduced to playing the role of side character in this awkward group of three that they form.

Yuri absolutely _hates_ being a background character. He's meant for the spotlight, but he's now a third-wheeler tagging behind in the shadows of their relationship, and he wants it to stop before it can get any worse.

He ends up clinging to Otabek before the Final. He needs something to hang on to—he's quite sure that Viktor and Yuuri are busy with their own things, so he grabs on to the skater's warmth instead and tries to soak it up as much as he can.

The memories start to fade from the back of his mind, twinkling dimly like little stars in his head, and it scares him more than it should. Times in the onsen starts to degrade into distant scenes of warmth and shouting. The katsudon's taste is still fresh, but he's afraid that it'll start to disappear too.

Of course, he should expect it. He should know that Viktor is the most selfish person he's ever known in his life, and he should know that as kind as he is, Yuuri is more than likely to be caught up in the brisk whirl of his boyfriend's light.

(Viktor's sparkle is as flimsy as he is. Yuuri gets swayed by the smallest things he does. And Yuri strays behind, too embarrassed to admit his loneliness.)

Otabek allows him to stay, as if he's not doing anything wrong. Neither of them say anything; they communicate best with silence and skating, and they want it to stay that way.

The conversation him and the other two is almost nonexistent now. It's just a compliment here and there; a shout of _good luck_ before a program, but it's so unnervingly normal that he can compare them to near strangers.

Yakov frowns at him when he slips during practice. He grits his teeth in response, distracted by his thoughts, and when he next passes by a knife in his hotel room, he wants nothing more than to shove it into their throats.

• • •

Yuri thinks that for just a moment, he's become important again, when Viktor embraces him on the way to his free program.

 _Ha,_ he laughs to himself in the end. He hasn't become important; it's still just _Yuuri_ in the coach's mind, and he blames himself for forgetting that Viktor is selfish and that he's a tool to him now.

Just a tool to make sure the katsudon stays by his side and doesn't retire. The thought makes him want to vomit.

He tells himself that he's not going to listen to Viktor, that he's skating because he _wants_ to win and not because _if he doesn't win Yuuri will retire_ and the entire plan backfires in his face as if he's trying out rocket science.

When he finishes, he falls to the ground heaving, head buried in his hands as sobs wreck his shoulders.

Yuri allows himself to cry then, the silvery liquid blending in with the ice beneath him as if hiding the evidence, and he realises then that the two of them are so important to them and that _he's out of the equation._

He tries not to focus on anything but Otabek's clapping. He's quite sure that he won't be able to take it otherwise.

• • •

He likes Otabek, he really does. He doesn't even know if he likes him in the same way as how Viktor likes Yuuri, but he's leaned on the man like a crutch the entire time and it's when he returns that he realises that Kazakhstan is way too far away from Russia.

This sort of long-distance relationship—if they can call it one, that is—doesn't quite work out. Yuri's too young and naive for it to—he admires the older man, and the skater respects him back. He wants more of that warmth whenever he's third-wheeling.

Without a crutch to lean on, he falls back into the same old pattern. Two of them remain wrapped up in their own world while the other watches on in sullen silence.

And it hurts like hell. They try to keep in contact, but the both of them are too busy with their own schedules and seeing Viktor and Yuuri on the same slab of ice as him feels like he's being mocked.

The next time he walks by the kitchen knife in his home, he wishes that it's his throat the blade will dig into.

(Yuri will remain as Friend A, of course.)

 **as I stated in Left Behind, I'm sorry (to all my old readers) for being so inactive ;; I'm busy with school and I've shifted mainly to Wattpad now**


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